When one creates phantoms for oneself, one puts vampires into the world, and one must nourish these children of a voluntary nightmare with one's blood, one's life, one's intelligence, and one's reason, without ever satisfying them.
Sounds like my dream lovers....hehehe
The day is grey, purposeful, and
It is as if each toppled stone,
Thrown askew by some un-named Source,
Murmurs a fragment of the story.
One tells of a longing in the blood,
While another tells of a dark, unfamiliar place.
One is shattered from the lust;
Another is stained with the wound.
The entrance is still apparent,
Marked by an unmistakeable keystone:
We know how, if not why,
We came through this door.
The way out remains a mystery,
Strewn as it is with so many fragments,
So many shards that we understand,
Instinctively, will make us bleed.
Staggering at times in a Darkness
He has made for us, we find the Moon.
The blood we left behind
May mark the path for others.
© Anne Robinson 2009